


Brief Moments

by LittleObsessions



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Mild S&M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:02:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleObsessions/pseuds/LittleObsessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Satin, lace, velvet, silk, golden light on marble skin. Ice. Leather. He is always successful…but only for moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brief Moments

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first post so please be as constructive as possible =) And thanks for reading.

The only light in the room is from the golden glow of flames, dancing idly in the hearth. It bounces off of the mahogany of the armoire, off of her dressing table and the panes of glass in the window frames. It curls around the posts of the bed and falls onto the heavy velvet drapes that encase it, turning the red a lighter, less sinister colour. The light does not avoid her skin, nor does it shirk away from her like other light does. Shimmering gold falls across marble panels of cold skin until it emblazons the satin of an intricately detailed corset that binds the top half of her body. It does not avoid the low, shallow breaths that are making her breasts rise and fall in anticipation. It colours her skin honey, it entwines with the lace of black panties that anger him. They fill him with venomous rage. They keep from him what is rightfully his. He watches her as she stares at him and he slips a casual hand into the pocket of his slacks and takes a sip from his wine glass. She laughs lowly, cruelly. And he knows why. She knows that this feigned attempt at patience is killing him. She stares at him; boating blazer, a white shirt and brogues - he is presentable where she is most certainly not. He looks so incredibly relaxed. He lifts the bottle of wine and pours more into the glass in his hand, so steady that she is thrown for a moment. When passion courses through him, his hand is not always so patient to do something so inane as drink. 

She tastes wine on her own lips, feels the rush of heady, uncontrolled need but she checks this emotion with deft ability. It makes her fragile and she hates fragility. She stares down at her hand, vermillion nails gripping black satin bed sheets. A flash of diamond, large and black and reflecting the firelight beside a plain wedding band. Then to her wrist, shackled in leather, the straps worn and soft from use but nonetheless effective. The chain leads down to the oak of the floor, bolted pewter and iron rings. ‘Discretion,’ he had whispered, ‘costs a lot of money.’

She shivers and moves fluidly, in a vain attempt to stave some of the tension in her body. She groans and open her eyes to look at him. Pools of fire are reflected in her eyes and he returns the moan. He is sure he could watch this forever, study her like some masterpiece of decades ago, or he could take her right now and never be satisfied. She does not provide satisfaction, only the desire for more. His body betrays him and he curses his weakness as her eyes focus just below his waistband. He strides towards her, closing the space between the hearth and bed in a second, removing his blazer as she does so. Her smile of satisfaction is unbearable and he looks away. For shame, she is able to do this to him even when she is the one bound and helpless. A growl of rage chokes his throat and she laughs coldly. Her movements make the chains rattle, shattering the silence, shattering his patience. He reaches out to grab her wrist, to stall her movements, to regain composure. She gasps as his powerful fingers entwine around the black leather, more rough than he intended she knows. He loosens his grip.

“Tease,” he mutters. 

She merely laughs again, infuriating and beautiful. Red lips curl up into a smile of satisfaction, fingers reaching for his waistband. He thinks that momentarily, she does this to tease herself. Then it occurs to him that it is to torture him. He removes his clothing fully and now she is the one left staring, helpless, yet a ghost of a smile at the sight of him flitters across her lips. Olive skin glitters in the firelight and he watched her eyes follow the contours of muscle across his chest.  
She is vain, she appreciates fine things, she appreciates the way his body is. She should be thankful for all the fencing and yoga and juggling. Again, her tongue darts onto her lips in an involuntary way and she imagines tracing the lines of his abdomen with her tongue. The taste of earth on his body. But he fails to notice it as he walks around the bed, kneeling so gracefully at her feet. She wonders at his hunched over body, the muscles in his back rippling as she undulates under him in blatant invitation. He lifts a pale ankle and kisses the skin there before letting it fall back onto the bed. She watches him, wordless and with shallow breath. He spreads her legs gently and the positioning, the idea of it, makes him groan. His body is weak and he must look away, try to regain composure. He appreciates the aesthetic as much as she does and she parts her legs a little more, shattering him entirely. He reaches forward, grabbing her waist with both hands and bringing her to sit up. She is a dead weight in his arms though her breathing, subtle on his neck, tells him that she is very much alive. He reaches behind her back and deftly begins untying the laces, the sound of the chains fill his ears and he is grateful for the length of them, short enough to control her, long enough to be practical. The satin loosens, tension flees from the whalebone that spends so much time bending to her body. Envy is too weak a word to describe how he feels about inanimate objects that please her. Holding her with one hand, his eyes always on her, he slowly unlatches the eyes on the front of the garment. The steel is cold but he has touched her skin. Nothing is as cold as her touch.

She feels the rush of cold air and shivers under it. She watches pleasure form on his face as he examines her body in detail, a growl falling from his lips and landing heavily as he prises open the corset as if unwrapping some desperately wanted gift. She arches her back to ease his removal of the garment. Exquisite, expensive and useless as it falls with a dull thud to the floor. He grasps her breast with a firm hand; the first touch, she conjectures, is always the most delicious. It sets the tone for the evening. 

Finally she gifts him with a cry; all he has wanted to hear perhaps but he will not let it be his undoing. He bends to kiss her neck, to bite at the skin, whiter than untouched snow, as he squeezes her breast. His lips devour the flesh and he studies the skin with the devotion of a young lover as a mark, crescent shaped, rises to the surface of her skin.

She watches satisfaction form on his face. He is not subtle. He never has been and this is why she so adores him. He moves away from her to the bottom of the bed again and he is out of reach. Beads of sweat gather on his chest and glisten in the firelight. He absorbs it with ease as reaches out to touch the lace of her panties. This is where she risks losing control; every urge in her body wishes to contradict her mind as he traces the lace with soft, manicured fingers. She knows that he will feel now how much she wants him. There are some things she cannot prevent her body from doing.

The lace is rough against the pads of his fingers, so used to feeling lace and satin. So used to running over decadent velvets and furs that it strikes him with delight every time he does so. The lace is damp as he moves his fingers lower. 

“Gods,” is the only word he can manage as he moves his fingers in small, examining circles. He presses them harder against her; these panties he saw as a barrier only minutes ago serving as an aid to pleasure her. Her breathing hums with the timing of his movements and she raises her hips up. Encouragement has always been her subtlest forte. He takes her lead, so desperately pleased with her reaction. He reaches out to pull them from her, sliding them down her legs as quickly as he can. He holds the useless little garment in his hand and smiles as she stares at him, her lips curling into a smile of delight.

She nods, “You can keep them.”

A moan of sheer pleasure erupts from within his throat and he falls once more, dipping his head to kiss the marble of her thighs then finally to do what he know has often been her undoing. She moans out into the room, closing her legs around his head as if she cannot possibly do anything else. He is grateful of the imprisonment. He could die in this moment and die as the most happy man alive. If she was not shackled she would tangle her fine fingers in his hair and push him further into her. The very thought drives him on; the thought that she cannot possibly control him thanks to leather and chains. But she can, he know himself to be a fool as he licks and sucks and kisses his way into her affections, driven by the need to pleasure her and the delicious taste of her. He feels her body contract, her hips lift as she cries his name into the red heat of the room and he is rewarded with her final pleasure and the hiss of ‘Gomez’ on her lips. Then she rests back, breathing heavy, red lips parted and eyes closed, legs spread before him in such a submissive way that he feels himself grow even more than he thought possible. 

He looks towards her, raises his head from where he has been imprisoned. On her cheeks, a slight blush of pleasure or perhaps embarrassment. He cannot be sure. All he can know is that he has succeeded and that it makes him even more wanting. An appetite such as he has for her is never sated.

“I want you,” is all that she mutters and he complies, forcing into her with all his might. She gasps in pain and he enjoys it. She wraps her legs around his waist and arches into him with words of encouragement so seductive that he has to block her out for fear of humiliating himself. 

“You taste…of…me….” she gasps within breaths, her lips demanding kisses forcefully as he grips the bed, knuckles white and bloodless, as she licks his chin and kisses his neck and anything she can reach with her mouth. He grips the velvet of the curtains, trying to steady himself as her moans fill his mind. He thinks and of asking in minute detail what she best enjoyed afterwards so he can take note, so he can do this to her again and again and succeed as he always does. She cries his name again and her body contracts and the success of his work drives him almost to the brink. But he is, for all he may seem impatient, incredibly skilled in this area. Not until the third time that she cries his name in ecstasy does he finally give into her and fall into a blinding oblivion with her, his head landing on her outstretched arm as she cries ‘I love you.’. He has no words. There are no words, in any language, to describe how he loves her. 

He takes a moment to regain himself and gives her a moment too. 

“Gomez,” she whispers finally and her voice is weak, “My darling, untie me?”

He complies and is pleased to see the gentle smile, not of lust or cruelty, on her face as he does so. She reaches out and touches his cheek, her nails raking the smooth skin there as she sits up and stares into his eyes. She smiles again and he breathes with relief. 

“You did very well, mon amour,” she says delicately. 

She lies back, massaging her wrist as she does so. There are blue and purple bracelets where the leather has rested. The light from the fire curls around her wrist and mingles with the bruises. She smiles again and reaches for her night gown but he touches her shoulder.

“No, leave it cara.” It is muffled for already, he has a cigar in his mouth.

She says nothing but laughs. Words are so measured with her that he knows her praise, her protestations of love, her criticisms are when she best puts her tongue to work. He doesn’t mind her silences. 

“Gomez,” she smiles coquettishly and he knows that period, that short moment after they make love that her guard is down, is gone, “You did very well but I know you can do better.”

She reaches to the side of the bed and produces a riding crop. He moans but as always, he complies. 

“You will kill me,” he groans but a smirk of expectation plays at the corners of his mouth. She takes the cigar from him and takes a long, protracted draw. He cannot help but watch as she proceeds to climb on top of him and crack the whip fiendishly against the palm of her hand.

“But how you will love your death, mon cher, I can assure you.”

Satin, lace, velvet, silk, golden light on marble skin. Ice. Leather. He is always successful…but only for moments.


End file.
